The bartender pointed to a ragged hole in the wainscoting.
"Dug it out o' there with the icepick. I'm a Sherlock, see? Sure," he sneered, "it might 'a' bounced off the Polock's breast."
The man wiped his towel over the bar in disgust.
Then seriously:
"On the dead, Mr. Gilman, if Tom had his rights, he'd be sent back to the ward to die."
Gilman was troubled. He returned in the morning and examined the premises carefully. At two-twenty that afternoon he was on the Limited, flying back to the capital.
That evening he was sitting with the governor in the library of the executive mansion. The windows were open and the odor of lilacs was borne in from the summer night. A negro who had served half a dozen governors, shuffled into the room, bearing a tray.
"That's excellent whisky," observed the private secretary.
"That was excellent whisky, Gilman," said the governor, "before you were born."
The private secretary was rolling a cigarette. He
